We are travelers all our lives.
Like the sun and moon, never come to rest.
When the body stops, the motion survives.

Time twists inside me.  I buried two wives,
their love spent on an endless road.  My quest  
consumed them, traveling all their lives.

Profligate summer mocks my waning drives.
Riddles of the road languish here, unguessed,
where my body stops. The motion survives

In my art’s vigor, you say, derives
force from what now seems the bitter  jest
that we are travelers all our lives.

My friend, before the end arrives
There must be time to seek again the west
beyond the sunset, where motion survives

in the dying sun, blazing, as it revives  
inhuman tongues that said it best
that we are travelers all our lives.
When the body stops, the motion survives.

Patiently waiting for the perfect light.
Glassy lake, wind, clouds, perfection’s near
as the moment dwindles into night.

Captured moments prove that you’re alive, a height
of feeling between depths of time and fear
that living casts only imperfect light.

But the moment missed is like a face out of sight
that against all logic you hope will appear
from around a corner, framed by the night.

Technology offers consolation in its sleight
of hand:  Digitally correct the analog here
and now, counterfeit the perfect light.

Yet you want more than the remastered byte.
You want the flash between waiting and souvenir,
Self and spectacle fused, reality felt right.

And so you wait for what’s passing out of sight,
the collision between soon and too late, sheer
threads connecting to the perfect light
before the moment dwindles into night.

I love you,
With all my heart,I swear this is true,
My love for you is as deep as the ocean’s blue,
I know, I know,
I said it to it to him too,
But that was last week and what I feel now is real,
You are it, I swear you are the real deal,

This is my truth,
I no longer lie like I did in my youth,
My love for you is pure,
It is as deep as the ocean’s blue,
I may not remember your name,
But I never forget a face,
And you have given my heart some sort of race,

Oh, here is my heart,
Bring it back when its hurt
I swear you are my last,
And this is not lust,
You are my forever and ever,
My happily ever never,


I mean it,
You and I will last,
I know, I know,
I said it to him too,
But that was last week, I swear what I feel is real!

You tell your friends,
Am nothing but a *****,
That all I cause if affliction,
Yet it all started with your conviction,
Blamed it on my addiction,
Remember,
You even had a prediction,
That there will soon be an eviction,
Unless I internalize your terms and conditions,
Forgive me for the infliction,
But my heart has known nothing but fiction,
And these emotions,
I carefully hide with my addictions,
I now know that it was my contradictions,
Or maybe my constriction,
That led us here,
Surrounded by those we love
In an auction for all this feelings we thought we had,
Those memories we held deep in our hearts,
Trotted on leaving nothing but hurt,
Maybe its,
This smile I wear like a depiction,
Yet gave love no attention,
This mask I wear like tradition,
I am on a mission,
But I have no vision,
I know it must feel like treason
Loving a heart that is locked like a prison,
There is no reason,
We already lasted our season,
Here is my goodbye,
Even though we will never know why.

there’s a piece of you inside of me
I put it there for safe keeping
close to the beating pulse of my body
so I can still feel you when you’re not around

your presence envelopes me
your voice soothes me
your touch stimulates me

this piece I carry tightly kept
inside my breath
where no one can see

Sacred, where the she or him
Cannot take it from me
Solid, where the lack or not enough
Cannot waiver me

Protected in this quiet place
that may not actually exist
perhaps only in this prose

where letter meets paper
paper holds truth
truth is what I say
and I say this..

There will always be a piece of you inside of me
Forever.
From now
until the next life we meet.

A man in a field walks through a storm.
Snowflakes on his eyelashes blur his vision.
A man in a study believes in snow,
believes in the truth of snow.

A man leaves traces as he walks.
His tracks ornament the field’s blank.
He meanders, doubles back, evading,
leaves imprints that the snow erases.
A man walks. The snow falls.  

In a study, a man devotes himself to snow.
He reads from the book of snow.
He composes wintry axioms.
“Snow:  Atmospheric water vapor frozen into ice crystals
that drop on a walking man’s eyelashes
or lie blank in an unwritten field.

“Snow is a conflict,
a confusion, a yearning.
Letters are desire.
Margins are melancholy.”

The storm disappears.
A man squints at blurred words,
Resumes writing,
Shaking snow from the page.

The language I learned from you
was the wordless speech
that tongue teaches tongue
that eye flicks to eye
that skin lets through